An Alternative Solution
by dmjenn
Summary: Abandoned by his wife just prior to the Jahr Null celebrations, John Smith struggles with what it means to be a Nazi. He is also obliged to deal with Juliana Crain, both personally and professionally. In this fic, Juliana never gets to travel and remains at the mercy of her very agitated captor. Follows canon up until Helen's phone call. Contains very graphic sexual elements.
1. The Man at the Window

John Smith stood staring blankly at the rampant chaos below through his penthouse window. His fingers balled into fists within his trouser pockets, wanting nothing more than to release them, to punch a hole through the damned impenetrable glass.

His seemingly impenetrable façade was beginning to dissolve.

The phone ringing was a blissful interruption.

John hoped it was Helen, who had just rung not an hour earlier. He hoped that she, who decided to desert him on a whim, taking their young daughters along for the ride to who knows where, had a change of heart and was turning the car around. That Helen absconded to protect their daughters from genetic testing he could understand, however her main justification was much less transparent. It was his fault he had risen through the ranks too quickly, had proven himself all too worthy of his recently elevated status. Simply put, he was so talented, there was nowhere else to go but up.

Every carefully orchestrated scheme he devised to keep his family secure had fallen apart. John Smith had no idea what he would do without them. Who was he supposed to fight for now?

He straightened his slumped over spine to his full six feet, a rigid posture aligning as each vertebrae stacked atop the other in a regimental fashion. His lips held in a grim line for several days, John let all warmth drain from his irises and waited next to the elevator. He still had trouble getting used to not having a door to unlock. It dinged and in strode an armed guard, standing erect and saluting the reluctant Reichsmarschall, while another came forward, gruffly pushing someone ahead of him: a slight-framed prisoner steaming with subdued ire.

Without question, this was Juliana Crain.

She was garbed in the regulation blue-grey prison jumpsuit; handcuffed, her long, loosened braid trailing over one shoulder. Stray brunette hairs slashed across her face like the fresh cuts that marred its surface. Those injuries were all her fault. She had committed no minor offence to earn them.

Her day (or in this case, night) of reckoning had been a long time coming, and they both knew it.

The notion of a hunter chasing a hare flitted through his mind. In a fictional world he could play the perpetually frustrated Elmer Fudd to the elusive Resistance angel's Bugs Bunny, characters which were part of an absurd cartoon reel confiscated and destroyed years before. A quiet laugh threatened to emerge, but he checked himself by biting his cheek so hard it threatened to bleed. He would display nothing short of the icy emptiness that had successfully scattered so many once ethically empowered individuals into submission.

John, finger on the elevator button, eyed his nemesis up and down and wordlessly nodded to the guards, who Seig Heiled to him and swiftly disappeared. He idly ran his fingers through his short curls, rolling his head in a circle, prolonging his captive's trepidation. The feeling – this fear of the unknown that she must be accustomed to by now – radiated from her as much as her goodness, a trait that simultaneously annoyed and unnerved him. For as exulted as John was, he was only human and could thus be affected enough to allow doubt to seep in.

He would never forget standing aboard that massive, garishly lit ship as fighter jets shot at the Statue of Liberty. He tried to mask his disgust and sorrow as the great lady crumpled before him amidst the misguided children's chanting, fireworks bursting to the ironic "Ode to Joy," and Himmler's huge, sickening grin and maniacal glee. He recalled the words of command he himself spoke that started it all.

_No._ He would not give into self-loathing tonight.

It was decided once he knew Helen and the girls were lost to him. He needed to vent. But he was afraid to be alone with himself. He also had to deal with his prisoner - on his own terms.

John always knew he could be a truly cold bastard. Therefore he was unfazed when the gears in his mind twisted into something sinister. He was a faithful husband, though he had been tempted several times. But there was one woman who made such a strong impression on him, he became almost fixated. He would dream of her involuntarily while cuddling Helen in the night. Her elusiveness tormented him; she got under his skin. Perhaps if he got her out of his system, he wouldn't hate himself as much as he did.

As he turned towards Juliana she twisted her head away, nearly smacking him in the face with her errant, tangled braid.

He stepped forwards and gripped her by the handcuffs, not harshly, but hardly gently. Pinning his eyes to hers, he was taken aback by the ferocity glaring back at him. He narrowed crystalline green eyes and tugged her closer, cocking his dark eyebrow in satisfaction upon hearing her emit a soft gasp. Her thick lashes were flecked with moisture as she blinked rapidly, breaths heaving through her nostrils like a bull gearing up to break loose.

But that wasn't going to happen tonight.

"Welcome to my home, Miss Crain. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Juliana kept her head down and raised her eyes to his, borne with the beautiful but treacherous defiance that could rattle a lesser man's bones.

"Go to hell," she half whispered, half growled.

Finally, John had cause to smile and allowed his lips to curl dispassionately. He was really going to enjoy this. He had quite a fun evening planned out for her.

"You first, Miss Crain. I insist."


	2. Q&A

John had released her only to shed his coat and discard his silver cross and tie, leaving his suspenders on over a crisp white shirt. He slowly slid his fingers beneath the tight, stretchy fabric of the suspenders. Juliana watched transfixed as he trailed his thumbs lower and lower…

"Come here, Juliana." She didn't move. He fixed her with his hollow, arctic eyes.

"When I tell you to come, you will obey. You will do whatever I tell you to do. Or else, your friend…Mr. Abendsen…_Abe_ as I've now discovered…will have to face the consequences. I have no qualms about calling in the order to inflict a special kind of torment on him. Perhaps I'll have him shot in that gibberish-spewing mouth of his."

Juliana shuddered and inched forward like skittish a doe.

"That's a good girl. But please, I can't keep this up all night. And I bet you're a bit tired, am I right?'

She said nothing.

He strode up to her and grasped her by the collar, breathing into her neck. "Answer me."

"Yes. I feel…not myself."

He then took her by the shoulders, and guided her to the dining room table, where he pulled out a chair and shoved her down. If not for the cushion, the abrupt contact might have bruised her.

He went to the kitchen and returned with a chilled bottle of Dornfelder and a glass. She stared straight ahead as he effortlessly tore off the cork and poured her a generous amount of the German red wine. He swirled it and lifted it to his nose and inhaled. He pushed the glass in front of Juliana's face and she pulled away in disgust.

"Don't you approve of the wine, Juliana?"

When she failed to budge, he grasped her by the back of the head and brought the glass just under her nose. "You don't approve?" She shook her head no. "That's too bad, because you don't have a choice in the matter."

He yanked her chin up and brought the glass to her mouth. "Drink." She reluctantly opened her mouth, but not enough to accommodate all of the dry, sweet liquid." It dribbled down her lips, onto the collar of her jumpsuit.

John became inpatient. "Drink it all, damn it," he demanded. "I don't care where it lands," he added, as droplets fell onto the pristine gleaming tabletop.

Juliana took immense gulps just to get it over with. All she could think about was her friends and her mission to travel. If only she could train herself to become robotic, she could disassociate enough from the impossible situation she was caught in.

She would become whatever he wanted and when he least expected it, she would be gone. She would let him have his fun and then have the last laugh in the end.

After the last of the wine had been drained, he pulled the glass away, but his hands remained tangled in her hair. His free hand moved slowly down her throat and found her pulse points. Squeezed ever so carefully. By pure reflex she jumped, and he bent over, lowering his mouth to her ear.

"Oh Miss Crain, you've stained your uniform." He grinned maliciously.

"It's fine." He tightened his hold on her hair, showing her scalp no mercy.

"I tell you, it's not _fine_. In fact, I think you're a bit too grungy for my tastes." She glared at his comment and was frustrated that he held her head in such a way she was a unable to meet his eyes.

"Tell me, Miss Crain…have you soiled yourself?" He slid his hand from her throat to her chest.

The implication came across as much more humiliating than the situation called for; he treated her like a child. Only a little wine escaped from her chin and two thin pale burgundy lines marred the collar of her rough jumpsuit. Otherwise, why use that particular phrase?

He gently released one button, then two. When she didn't answer, he lightly bit down on her collarbone, emitting a sharp cry from her.

"Miss Crain," he crooned, against her ear, "Are you in agreement?" She thought about Abendsen with no hesitation.

"Yes, I have soiled myself."

"Yes, what?" He looked up at her expectantly, with raised eyebrows. Her mind was cloudy, so cloudy.

"Erm, yes…Sir?" He sunk his perfect white teeth into the cartilage of her ear. "Ow!" He grinned.

"You know who I am…"

"Yes…Reichsmarschall?" All confidence had eluded her at this point. She was petrified by his proximity to her.

"Not tonight." Her heart thudded beneath her small breasts hidden beneath a thin white cotton bra. "Say it with me..." he paused, poring over her incredulous eyes. "...Yes, John."

"Yes, John, I have soiled myself."

He smiled and pulled her up. "You certainly have."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. For a moment Juliana felt elation as he slid the key into the lock and slipped off the shackles. They clattered when they hit the table.

She immediately rubbed at her wrists, looking down at the tiles of the floor for some semblance of calm. But he grabbed her arm and led her down the narrow hallway, boots stamping their mark over his territory.

At the very end of the hallway, he held her by the back of her jumper and knocked. A conventionally pretty woman in her 20s with black hair and milky skin answered. She was clad in a maid's uniform, hands folded before her wearing a gentle smile.

_What in the world?_ thought Juliana.

"Ah, Miss Crain. Meet Meghan, my maid Bridget's _discreet_ cousin. She will be taking special care of you this evening to prepare you for the…festivities." He had an awful gleam in his eyes.

Juliana's eyes widened as she took in the large claw footed bathtub filled to the brim with bubbles. The room was overwhelmingly imbued with some sort of warm, exotic perfume…vanilla…patchouli? It was very inviting, she had to admit. But this was no romantic gesture.

John pushed her into the room as Meghan held the door open.

"Scrub-a-dub dub, my dear. You smell like a gutter rat. I want you clean – every, every part of you." His eyes glowed a lush, dangerous forest in the candlelight.

"_Every_ part, John?" she dared to interject.

"Everything," he said, dragging out the syllables as effortlessly as he exhaled cigarette smoke. She gulped. He finally released her. "Don't be shy. Meghan knows what to do, don't you?"

The maid acquiesced with a practiced nod. "There you go. Nothing to fear."

And yet, as much as Juliana's dirty body screamed for soap, she remained suspicious. John nodded his head toward a large black shopping bag situated on the vanity table. "When you're done, Megan will help you into your new clothes."

_John bought her clothes? _This was getting to be so strange.

He stepped in and gripped her chin once more. "What do you say for my generosity, Juliana?" he rasped. Just then she noticed his own smell. As heady as his eyes. Stress sweat. Resin.

"Thank you, John." _Thank you for the soothing bath that may just help me focus my mind enough get me the fuck out of here._

"I'll give you half an hour. If you're not ready by then, I'll come and fetch you myself." He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway. "And believe me, we wouldn't want that to happen." Juliana knew his casual demeanor to be a ruse – she always saw right through him.

"I'll be ready, John. I promise," she replied staring at her raw, reddened wrists.

"I very much look forward to it," he replied with a disturbing lilt to his voice. And he shut the door, leaving Juliana alone with the maid.

God knows if she could trust her.


	3. Totter

However kindly and well-meaning Meghan was, it was nonetheless an entirely degrading experience.

After being stripped naked, Juliana was led to the steaming bath. As she was a little unsteady due to the wine, not to mention her electroshock treatment that morning, she let Meghan carefully guide her into the deep gilded porcelain tub, her small hands wrapped around Juliana's slender waist.

She tentatively sunk into the water, judging it to be the ideal temperature. Minutes later, Juliana watched each fluffy pile of bubbles float beyond her, along with any thoughts of her disastrous spy mission in the Poconos.

The warmth cocooned her weary limbs and, frustratingly, she began to luxuriate in the experience of having her hair scrubbed and massaged with high-end shampoo. After all, who knew when she would ever get to experience such _generosity_ again?

Regardless, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The fragrance reminded her vaguely of what a courtesan might wear in ancient Egypt. She concentrated on the stillness of the water, the weightlessness of her limbs. She leaned her head back as Meghan started to rinse away the suds.

How could this possibly be construed as hell?

Her mind started to drift further and further away from reality as soothing water was poured over her head repeatedly. She was getting close, so close to finding a way out of the dungeon known as the GNR.

Incessant knocking broke through her reverie, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"I hope you haven't drowned in there, Miss Crain." The sarcasm was dreadful under the circumstances. "You have ten minutes, or else I'm going to come in there and finish the job."

When no further comment was made, Juliana reached for the thick bar of triple-milled soap. "It's ok, I can manage from here."

"Of course," Meghan replied perkily.

Juliana hurriedly lathered every part of herself, but against his 'rules' omitted her privates in favor of plain, fresh water from the tap. Her wrists were slightly tender and whatever perfumed the water irritated the marks, but she pushed through the pain and gingerly rose out of the tub. Meghan immediately helped her step out and patted her dry with a plush towel of the highest quality as Juliana wrung out her mass of hair.

Next came the scented oils, which were rubbed into her skin with deft precision, avoiding her most sensitive areas. When the maid placed her hands atop her rear, Juliana squirmed at the intrusion.

"Sorry," the young maid whispered, kneading the oil in. Was she supposed to play Cleopatra today?

Meghan wasn't finished. Perfume was spritzed all over her skin, to intensify the sweet yet potent musk. This was not something Juliana would usually wear. She favored subtle floral fragrances such as lavender or something light and fresh. Due to her relative poverty as of late, she now wore nothing at all.

She began to pin her damp hair atop her head, but Meghan stopped her.

"Your hair must be worn down in a braid, as before. Reichsmarschall Smith's orders." The braid was redone and secured with a silky black ribbon.

Finally, the contents of the bag were revealed. Juliana's crystal blue eyes bulged out of her head. She knew not to question just how he managed to procure such items at this time of night (unless he had them hidden away already, though that was highly unlikely). She rolled her eyes and began to remove the contents.

John Smith was quite the pervert.

After being successfully trussed up, the maid told her to wait and returned quickly with another box. Juliana's jaw dropped when she peeled back the black and gold striped tissue paper. Even her legs started to quake.

In addition, John was undoubtedly a sadist. What else could one expect from the head of the Greater Nazi Reich of North America?

Through with her duties, Meghan had Juliana sit at the vanity table as she opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Low conversation, soft and gruff voices, words undecipherable.

"Thank you. Be assured you will be highly compensated." The unmistakable rasp of her captor.

"It was a pleasure, sir." The elevator dinged once more.

She was alone again. With him. And his deranged plans, whatever they were.

There was no time to collect her thoughts, nor even to marvel at the devilish creation she was attired in as the bathroom door was suddenly pushed open. But no one was on the other side. But then, footsteps.

"Time for inspection, Miss Crain."

Juliana gripped the arms of the ornate vanity chair to steady herself. This was going to be so humiliating. She rose and took a small step forward and tottered. She held onto the vanity and straightened her back and literally pushed herself toward the door.

"Miss Crain?" He sounded impatient as always. What did this insane man want from her?

She peeked out and, noticing his eyes widen, immediately lowered hers to her body. Whatever was going to happen, she wanted to get it over with. Right now, luck was eluding her.

John stood with his hands in his both pockets once more, head cocked to the side as he let out a low whistle. His eyebrows quirked up, betraying his excitement. In all his fantasies, nothing could have prepared him for this stunning vision. He blinked a couple times and knit his brows together.

"Why are you cowering in the doorway?" When he received no response, he smirked a little and pointed at her shoes. He sniffed out a laugh. "I could see why those might be problematic."

Juliana cringed.

Of course she was having trouble with the 5-inch black spiked stilettos. They had rounded toes, a slight platform, and were adorned with a tiny bow in the center. She was used to wearing flats or low-heeled shoes, another fact he had long filed away in that vindictive part of his brain that was always poised to catch her.

Too late, she realized the full extent of his plans.

He turned his palm over and crooked his index finger toward him.

"Walk towards me, Miss Crain. Stand right over here," he pointed.

She placed a tentative foot on the ground and willed herself not to fall. The floor proved to be slightly slippery. But she managed to move about two feet away from the door. She stood with her arms at her sides, a blush of shame starting to creep across her face and down her chest.

John leisurely perused her taut body from all sides, boots tapping against the tiles with every stoic turn. "Yes, I knew you would do this justice. Better than I could have ever imagined..." he trailed off.

The outfit was nothing short of exquisite, however it was leagues away from the skirt, blouse and sensible shoes she had expected. Instead she had been garbed in a low-cut bra made of dusky blue satin, covered with black lace. The cut was so low it nearly exposed her nipples; it certainly grazed them enough.

There was also matching panties, which exposed half of her small, perky rear, as well as a garter belt and black fishnet stockings. She also wore a black leather choker around her neck. It had a strange metal piece dangling off of it, but Juliana paid no attention to that as she concentrated on not falling and twisting an ankle.

Now positioned directly in front of her, John moved incrementally closer and caressed her arms, up and down, up and down, lightly scratching the surface of her slick skin. His eager fingertips stroked over her exposed navel in a figure 8 pattern and started to trail lower.

Juliana bit her lip at the inevitable intrusion. He licked his lips and grinned when his roving hand stopped right above her mound. His other hand rose to her neck, deftly slipping two fingers inside the choker and tugging her head forward, almost causing her to lose her balance entirely.

Tiger-like eyes locked into hers, absorbing the fear and confusion swirling inside them. It energized him.

Juliana couldn't help but squeeze her other lips together, tightly. She opened her mouth in wonder - at her body's admission of defeat.

She was so mesmerized that she barely noticed him attaching a long chain to her choker. Or, rather, her collar. Juliana instinctively began to struggle as a surge of adrenaline pulsed through her, which only made John tighten his hold on the chain. He lifted a finger to her forehead and stroked across the cut. She hissed.

"Ooh, that must hurt," he teased. "But I can't pretend to care how - or what- you feel, Miss Crain."

She wanted to turn her face away, but she wouldn't put it past him to slap her to keep her in line. Instead she met his eyes whenever possible.

His body mere inches away, Juliana noted that the two top buttons had been released on his shirt; wisps of dark hair peeked through. He wore no undershirt. His particular odor, which was far from unpleasant, almost overwhelmed her – there was a cohesiveness between the blatantly masculine vetiver, smoke, cedar (she had no idea what the hell it was – she only guessed) and the sultry mixture of vanilla and amber slathered all over her own skin.

It felt primal and unwanted.

John Smith read her thoughts entirely. He lowered his head to her ear, placing a light kiss on her onyx-studded earlobe.

"You're right. We do smell good together. I did that on purpose, you know," he added in a tantalizing whisper. With that he wrapped his hands around the chain once, twice, turned around on his heel, and marched Juliana down the hallway.

She tottered behind obediently. And planned.


	4. Marble

John came to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway and turned.

"I really appreciate your willingness to participate, Miss Crain. Still, you being who you are, someone who has an awful tendency to poke her nose where it shouldn't belong, must have some questions as to why I brought you here."

He looked at her directly, betraying nothing except for a slight tic at the corner of his lip. "So, if there's anything – anything at all you wish to know – now is the time to ask. Because you won't have another opportunity to do so."

Juliana stood rubbing her arm nervously. "What's that supposed to mean, John? Ober – Oberst – "

"Reichsmarschall of North America, Miss Crain. Supreme commander of the Greater Nazi Reich in the Western Hemisphere." The absurd title rolled across his tongue effortlessly.

"Right. But you didn't answer my question."

He tilted his head as if he didn't hear her. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

She ground down on her teeth. "You didn't answer my question, John."

"Ah, well." He shoved one hand in his pocket and stared at the ground while the other tested the weight of the chain with the other. "You will learn soon enough."

His eyes darted towards a generic landscape situated on the wall behind her. Just one of many that adorned his new Manhattan abode. Something that would seem more appropriate in a doctor's office waiting area. His eyes flicked back to her. "Next question."

She grew more determined. "Why was I removed from my cell?"

"Because, Miss Crain, I've had a tedious, exhausting day. Which, granted, is saying something for a man in my position. But more on that later."

It was aggravating how evasive he was being. Typical Nazi; typical John Smith. All his answers required a follow-up question. She sensed she was running out of time. One subject in particular troubled her, a glaringly obvious one, having very little to do with her current predicament. Or so she thought.

"Where are Helen and the children, John?"

"Not here at the moment," he replied tersely.

She was tugged forward with a slight tension, the result of John's grip tightening around the length of chain with enough pressure to turn his knuckles chalk white. He fixed her with a glare and she instinctively stepped back. She could have murdered his dog for all the untapped fury it contained. No more family pet. No family around.

Alone with John Smith. She gulped at her stupidity.

In the next instant she found herself pinned between his body and the wall.

The tic was more pronounced and his cheekbones seemed to jut out at her. Smooth, menacing marble. The entryway, the tiles, his face. He blended in with his cold surroundings perfectly. And yet there was flesh and bone anchoring the protrusions to his model-perfect, albeit aging features. Warmth, like any other human.

She had an urge to lift her fingers to his skin to test the realness of it, but she wouldn't dare. His eyes were, inconceivably, warm-hued, golden green leaves tinged with the first hints of autumn, the whites blindingly bright. The large, hooded orbs bore into hers as if seeking admission somewhere any ordinary Nazi would waltz in without a care.

"You get one more question, Miss Crain. And you'd better make it count."

She couldn't disappoint.

"Where's your soul, John?" she spat. He scoffed and chuckled, shook his head.

"I don't know how you ever passed the Auxiliary Citizenship Test, Miss Crain. There's no religion in the Reich! When you die, you're dead." He acted as if this were some sort of joke.

"Thomas," she uttered under her breath, though she never meant his name to be voiced aloud. Nonetheless, John had heard her as if she screamed his name. He pressed her cheek into the wall forcefully. Juliana winced as a sense of foreboding rattled her bones.

It was the first time she truly feared for her life since being prodded through the elevator. She tried to focus on the bronze stallion in her line of vision as he lowered his mouth to her ear.

"Never. Talk. About. My family," he warned in that corpse-cold manner of his. "They are off-limits for discussion. You are never to mention them again. Never. Do you understand?" She nodded as much as she could.

"Yes. Yes, John." She wanted to cry and struggled to hold back tears.

"Now," he growled, placing disturbingly gentle kisses along her hairline, flicking his tongue at the skin beneath her earlobe. He bit down next to one of the onyx studs he bought to match her outfit.

She jumped, imaging he would sink his teeth in as before. John laughed as he recognized her trepidation, kissing down her neck, a hand sliding from her cheek downward. His heavy body molded against her slight frame and her nipples sprung to attention against their own accord. Too sexually attuned for her own good, she tried to push her breasts into his hand when he reached the center of the lacy bra.

But instead of grabbing for the uplifted mounds, he splayed his hand across the center.

He was feeling for her heartbeat. _What was he about?_ She felt him sigh into the join of her neck and shoulder.

"Get down on your knees."

John released his hold on her and she sank down onto the dark grey marble, more graceful than she had anticipated. She bowed her head in the manner she had grown accustomed to as a subservient white woman in the Japanese Pacific States.

He titled her chin up and stared down at her striking, yet delicate countenance, reveling in the feel of the cleft in her chin. The oddest of features to be attracted to.

"Miss Crain…Juliana. I am not the monster you imagine me to be. And contrary to what you're likely thinking, I am _not_ going to kill you."

A breath she hadn't realized she had held for so many hours came out in a whoosh.

"No, that is not what you're here for." He stroked the side of her face. "I believe a smart girl like you would be able to comprehend a suitable alternative punishment for all your misdeeds." He crouched down to meet her at eye level.

"There are…things, activities I refused to engage in with my wife. I respect her too much. Make no mistake, I am no novice. There were women long before Helen and I got together who would readily satisfy my particular cravings. You see, Miss Crain, I always had it in me to be rather...controlling."

Juliana felt her thighs quake at every rasping utterance from what she now noticed was a pleasingly soft mouth, which slowly curved into a smirk. But the way in which he had spoken that last word – _controlling_ – had done her in. Her pert nipples stood out more prominently in anticipation of the inevitable. She slowly brought her legs together.

John sensed her intentions and immediately jerked them apart.

He smiled because he was right about her.

There was something sacred about his natural dominance. When the world was collapsing around him, especially at this moment when there was no longer anything, or _anyone_, to anchor himself to, this guiding force was his last resort. And she, Juliana Crain, was to be that temporary anchor. A savior while he was lost at sea, preventing him from drowning in his own despair.

And he would hold onto her through control. Always control. He could not relinquish it. He wouldn't know how to survive otherwise.

The scenario wasn't completely unplanned. It played in his mind during lost moments, that record hidden away until a particular mood struck him to sway to the music alone and free.

He loved Helen and always would. But sometimes his dreams did not contain her laugh, her smile, or her body. When they didn't include Helen, or world domination, or Thomas, or flashbacks of the barbarous acts he committed in Cincinnati, they featured a calmly defiant woman that made him weak with desire – a desire to conquer every part of her.

Her sleek, slender curves made her somehow more dangerous to him. She moved about with a catlike elegance, stark blue feline eyes and dark waves cascading over her shoulders. She was a free spirit he could never quite catch, but in his mind he always did.

He always, always found her and kept her locked away so she could never escape. But when he awoke, he knew she was still out there at large, running from something much bigger than herself. Seeking information about worlds he knew nothing about, until recently. Working in tandem with the Resistance to demolish his carefully constructed way of life.

He was intensely compelled to obliterate the impotence he felt at being unable to protect his family from harm and to stop obsessing about, in Juliana's own words, his _failure_ to save his poor son from believing in his defectiveness. In John's eyes he was perfect. In the Reich's eyes, a "useless eater," a blight on society.

In the end, a golden boy whose likeness was cemented in the minds and hearts of children who could never imagine a world where having an illness or disability did not always mean a death sentence. The tragedy of the past twenty years or so boiled his blood.

And stirred it.

John's left hand held Juliana by the waist while his right wandered about her thigh, gliding upwards, taunting her with the possibility of further exploration, but he never lingered. Massaging the straining muscles of her thigh through the fishnets, he was taken back to nights spent idling the time away at a fancy cabaret nightclub he would often frequent with comrades in Berlin while on official business; the dancers wore them well.

He deliberately chose that particular set of lingerie to make her squirm – and he, as well. His tastes ran darker than what most fine women's department stores would be able to accommodate. But he had his connections. The Nazis in Berlin were more liberal than they were in New York. As for the shoes…well she couldn't very well run away from him in those now, could she?

He looked up at her and felt a thrill when he saw her lips quivering. It betrayed what was surely transpiring beneath the lacy blue underwear that matched her eyes almost exactly.

Leaning a hairsbreadth away from her mouth, he whispered, "I think a girl like you would really take to becoming a true submissive." She blinked in wonder, horror. He couldn't tell. The chain momentarily forgotten, he inched his face closer, an infinitesimal amount. "Mine in particular," John uttered shamelessly. "Tell me you feel the same."

Juliana's mouth betrayed her body, while her mind protested in vain. "Yes, John, I want it."

He nodded and started to trail his fingers up her forearms, the tiny hairs shooting to attention. "I'm pleased to hear it. After a pause he added, "I do also have a penchant for pet names."

Her eyes widened. He was truly, truly a pervert of the first order.

"Some I prefer more than others," he continued, cock twitching at the very idea of his dreams unfolding into reality, at the worst possible moment in his broken life. "Seeing as tonight is a special occasion, I think it's fitting that you choose." His teeth grazed her bare shoulder lightly. "It's the only choice you've got. You have ten seconds, or else…Mr. Abendsen…"

His firm lips traversed the line of her neck, kissing and nipping. "Hurry, hurry, Miss Crain." He suckled at her earlobe as if it were a ripe nipple.

Her mind went instantly blank. "Slut. I want to be your slut, John." She felt him smile against her skin, a wide smile with teeth. He raised his eyebrow in approval and anticipation.

"Good choice," he growled into her ear with blatant approval. She felt him fumble with the choker. Blissfully, he had released the chain. Perhaps this would not turn out to be such an ordeal after all. She began to rise. He deftly wrapped his large hand around her still wet strands and shoved her back down to the floor. She landed on her palms with a distinct smack.

"Uh uh. Down on all fours," he ordered gruffly and folded his arms across his chest. "Now crawl to me, you conniving little slut."

John came to an abrupt halt at the end of the hallway and turned.

"I really appreciate your willingness to participate, Miss Crain. Still, you being who you are, someone who has an awful tendency to poke her nose where it shouldn't belong, must have some questions as to why I brought you here."

He looked at her directly, betraying nothing except for a slight tic at the corner of his lip. "So, if there's anything – anything at all you wish to know – now is the time to ask. Because you won't have another opportunity to do so."

Juliana stood rubbing her arm nervously. "What's that supposed to mean, John? Ober – Oberst – "

"Reichsmarschall of North America, Miss Crain. Supreme commander of the Greater Nazi Reich in the Western Hemisphere." The absurd title rolled across his tongue effortlessly.

"Right. But you didn't answer my question."

He tilted his head as if he didn't hear her. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

She ground down on her teeth. "You didn't answer my question, John."

"Ah, well." He shoved one hand in his pocket and stared at the ground while the other tested the weight of the chain with the other. "You will learn soon enough."

His eyes darted towards a generic landscape situated on the wall behind her. Just one of many that adorned his new Manhattan abode. Something that would seem more appropriate in a doctor's office waiting area. His eyes flicked back to her. "Next question."

She grew more determined. "Why was I removed from my cell?"

"Because, Miss Crain, I've had a tedious, exhausting day. Which, granted, is saying something for a man in my position. But more on that later."

It was aggravating how evasive he was being. Typical Nazi; typical John Smith. All his answers required a follow-up question. She sensed she was running out of time. One subject in particular troubled her, a glaringly obvious one, having very little to do with her current predicament. Or so she thought.

"Where are Helen and the children, John?"

"Not here at the moment," he replied tersely.

She was tugged forward with a slight tension, the result of John's grip tightening around the length of chain with enough pressure to turn his knuckles chalk white. He fixed her with a glare and she instinctively stepped back. She could have murdered his dog for all the untapped fury it contained. No more family pet. No family around.

Alone with John Smith. She gulped at her stupidity.

In the next instant she found herself pinned between his body and the wall.

The tic was more pronounced and his cheekbones seemed to jut out at her. Smooth, menacing marble. The entryway, the tiles, his face. He blended in with his cold surroundings perfectly. And yet there was flesh and bone anchoring the protrusions to his model-perfect, albeit aging features. Warmth, like any other human.

She had an urge to lift her fingers to his skin to test the realness of it, but she wouldn't dare. His eyes were, inconceivably, warm-hued, golden green leaves tinged with the first hints of autumn, the whites blindingly bright. The large, hooded orbs bore into hers as if seeking admission somewhere any ordinary Nazi would waltz in without a care.

"You get one more question, Miss Crain. And you'd better make it count."

She couldn't disappoint.

"Where's your soul, John?" she spat. He scoffed and chuckled, shook his head.

"I don't know how you ever passed the Auxiliary Citizenship Test, Miss Crain. There's no religion in the Reich! When you die, you're dead." He acted as if this were some sort of joke.

"Thomas," she uttered under her breath, though she never meant his name to be voiced aloud. Nonetheless, John had heard her as if she screamed his name. He pressed her cheek into the wall forcefully. Juliana winced as a sense of foreboding rattled her bones.

It was the first time she truly feared for her life since being prodded through the elevator. She tried to focus on the bronze stallion in her line of vision as he lowered his mouth to her ear.

"Never. Talk. About. My family," he warned in that corpse-cold manner of his. "They are off-limits for discussion. You are never to mention them again. Never. Do you understand?" She nodded as much as she could.

"Yes. Yes, John." She wanted to cry and struggled to hold back tears.

"Now," he growled, placing disturbingly gentle kisses along her hairline, flicking his tongue at the skin beneath her earlobe. He bit down next to one of the onyx studs he bought to match her outfit.

She jumped, imaging he would sink his teeth in as before. John laughed as he recognized her trepidation, kissing down her neck, a hand sliding from her cheek downward. His heavy body molded against her slight frame and her nipples sprung to attention against their own accord. Too sexually attuned for her own good, she tried to push her breasts into his hand when he reached the center of the lacy bra.

But instead of grabbing for the uplifted mounds, he splayed his hand across the center.

He was feeling for her heartbeat. _What was he about?_ She felt him sigh into the join of her neck and shoulder.

"Get down on your knees."

John released his hold on her and she sank down onto the dark grey marble, more graceful than she had anticipated. She bowed her head in the manner she had grown accustomed to as a subservient white woman in the Japanese Pacific States.

He titled her chin up and stared down at her striking, yet delicate countenance, reveling in the feel of the cleft in her chin. The oddest of features to be attracted to.

"Miss Crain…Juliana. I am not the monster you imagine me to be. And contrary to what you're likely thinking, I am _not_ going to kill you."

A breath she hadn't realized she had held for so many hours came out in a whoosh.

"No, that is not what you're here for." He stroked the side of her face. "I believe a smart girl like you would be able to comprehend a suitable alternative punishment for all your misdeeds." He crouched down to meet her at eye level.

"There are…things, activities I refused to engage in with my wife. I respect her too much. Make no mistake, I am no novice. There were women long before Helen and I got together who would readily satisfy my particular cravings. You see, Miss Crain, I always had it in me to be rather...controlling."

Juliana felt her thighs quake at every rasping utterance from what she now noticed was a pleasingly soft mouth, which slowly curved into a smirk. But the way in which he had spoken that last word – _controlling_ – had done her in. Her pert nipples stood out more prominently in anticipation of the inevitable. She slowly brought her legs together.

John sensed her intentions and immediately jerked them apart.

He smiled because he was right about her.

There was something sacred about his natural dominance. When the world was collapsing around him, especially at this moment when there was no longer anything, or _anyone_, to anchor himself to, this guiding force was his last resort. And she, Juliana Crain, was to be that temporary anchor. A savior while he was lost at sea, preventing him from drowning in his own despair.

And he would hold onto her through control. Always control. He could not relinquish it. He wouldn't know how to survive otherwise.

The scenario wasn't completely unplanned. It played in his mind during lost moments, that record hidden away until a particular mood struck him to sway to the music alone and free.

He loved Helen and always would. But sometimes his dreams did not contain her laugh, her smile, or her body. When they didn't include Helen, or world domination, or Thomas, or flashbacks of the barbarous acts he committed in Cincinnati, they featured a calmly defiant woman that made him weak with desire – a desire to conquer every part of her.

Her sleek, slender curves made her somehow more dangerous to him. She moved about with a catlike elegance, stark blue feline eyes and dark waves cascading over her shoulders. She was a free spirit he could never quite catch, but in his mind he always did.

He always, always found her and kept her locked away so she could never escape. But when he awoke, he knew she was still out there at large, running from something much bigger than herself. Seeking information about worlds he knew nothing about, until recently. Working in tandem with the Resistance to demolish his carefully constructed way of life.

He was intensely compelled to obliterate the impotence he felt at being unable to protect his family from harm and to stop obsessing about, in Juliana's own words, his _failure_ to save his poor son from believing in his defectiveness. In John's eyes he was perfect. In the Reich's eyes, a "useless eater," a blight on society.

In the end, a golden boy whose likeness was cemented in the minds and hearts of children who could never imagine a world where having an illness or disability did not always mean a death sentence. The tragedy of the past twenty years or so boiled his blood.

And stirred it.

John's left hand held Juliana by the waist while his right wandered about her thigh, gliding upwards, taunting her with the possibility of further exploration, but he never lingered. Massaging the straining muscles of her thigh through the fishnets, he was taken back to nights spent idling the time away at a fancy cabaret nightclub he would often frequent with comrades in Berlin while on official business; the dancers wore them well.

He deliberately chose that particular set of lingerie to make her squirm – and he, as well. His tastes ran darker than what most fine women's department stores would be able to accommodate. But he had his connections. The Nazis in Berlin were more liberal than they were in New York. As for the shoes…well she couldn't very well run away from him in those now, could she?

He looked up at her and felt a thrill when he saw her lips quivering. It betrayed what was surely transpiring beneath the lacy blue underwear that matched her eyes almost exactly.

Leaning a hairsbreadth away from her mouth, he whispered, "I think a girl like you would really take to becoming a true submissive." She blinked in wonder, horror. He couldn't tell. The chain momentarily forgotten, he inched his face closer, an infinitesimal amount. "Mine in particular," John uttered shamelessly. "Tell me you feel the same."

Juliana's mouth betrayed her body, while her mind protested in vain. "Yes, John, I want it."

He nodded and started to trail his fingers up her forearms, the tiny hairs shooting to attention. "I'm pleased to hear it. After a pause he added, "I do also have a penchant for pet names."

Her eyes widened. He was truly, truly a pervert of the first order.

"Some I prefer more than others," he continued, cock twitching at the very idea of his dreams unfolding into reality, at the worst possible moment in his broken life. "Seeing as tonight is a special occasion, I think it's fitting that you choose." His teeth grazed her bare shoulder lightly. "It's the only choice you've got. You have ten seconds, or else…Mr. Abendsen…"

His firm lips traversed the line of her neck, kissing and nipping. "Hurry, hurry, Miss Crain." He suckled at her earlobe as if it were a ripe nipple.

Her mind went instantly blank. "Slut. I want to be your slut, John." She felt him smile against her skin, a wide smile with teeth. He raised his eyebrow in approval and anticipation.

"Good choice," he growled into her ear with blatant approval. She felt him fumble with the choker. Blissfully, he had released the chain. Perhaps this would not turn out to be such an ordeal after all. She began to rise. He deftly wrapped his large hand around her still wet strands and shoved her back down to the floor. She landed on her palms with a distinct smack.

"Uh uh. Down on all fours," he ordered gruffly and folded his arms across his chest. "Now crawl to me, you conniving little slut."


	5. Use Me

Her stomach fell just as surely as her palms hit the ground with a thud. The suddenness of the order astounded her. And no less, the words.

He had removed her leash, yet it was clear she was still to act as a pet of sorts.

Juliana's eyes burned as she stared up at John, letting herself absorb the words of her tormentor, who gazed upon her with a completely inscrutable expression.

As one of the only lights left on in the apartment was next to the elevator, John's form appeared half shrouded. A figure split down the middle – _bright_, with harsh, yet distinct edges, or _dark_, with shards of sparkling moonlight breaking through the gloom.

She desperately wanted to defy him, to tell him no. But she wouldn't be able to handle the combined weight of guilt and poisonous regret if anything befell her dear friend because of her persistent vendetta against the man currently in front of her, mocking her with raised eyebrows.

John was a truly depraved individual.

Juliana felt sorry for Helen, wherever she was. Her husband was obviously committing adultery by kissing and caressing her; sexual assault for touching her against her will; physical assault for tugging on her hair, biting her ear and tightening his hand around her neck; false imprisonment for her captivity. Were John Smith an ordinary man, he would have been evaporated by now.

But John Smith was not an ordinary man.

At least he promised not to kill her. But this wouldn't be the first time he lied. For instance, he led Joe to believe Juliana was dead, when in reality she was biding her time as a housewife in training in the Reich.

She peered at the fresh wound on top of her hand, now shielded by two thin bandages. She was surprised John hadn't poured lye all over it, as well as the rest of her battle marks.

He might not snuff out her life, but what was preventing him from inflicting horrific levels of pain and potential disfigurement upon her? Psychologically tormenting her until she suffered a mental breakdown? She wondered what other devious implements he had stocked away in the home he shared with his family.

She didn't hesitate. One palm before the other, and so on.

John had his hands shoved in his pockets once again, fiddling with the lining. He backed up casually, knowing every inch of his new home already. Not that it was difficult to get around. So many right angles.

He couldn't believe the words that just tumbled out of his mouth. Demanding that Juliana Crain crawl to him was anything but premeditated. But when he felt her flesh under his fingers, soft skin beneath garments he knew she'd never be able to afford – or find – he wanted to claim her in the most animal way, as he did in his dreams.

And now she was here, his for the evening. Beyond that…well, John hadn't planned that far ahead. He was not thinking clearly and hadn't been since viewing that film featuring Thomas.

Thomas, a happy, carefree teenager. Alive. Himself, jovial and spontaneous. The reel's existence scrambled his brain.

It just didn't make any sense.

Cigarettes had not calmed the tremors in his heart. It was right that he ride out the nightmares in his study because Helen would never be able to sleep otherwise. And one of them had to be a fully functioning parent.

Helen. Jennifer. Amy. Jahr fucking Null. The dismantling of New York, his family, his life, all at once. He was a prisoner to a manipulative regime; through and through, a slave to his blindly unwavering ambition that got him nowhere but a lonely penthouse with a sanctimonious convict for company.

But... he adored the look of Juliana on her knees, slinking towards him like a pretty koi fish with her glowing, glistening skin. He caught a sigh in the back of his throat drinking in her lithe muscles, slightly golden skin, narrow hips swaying, that fine little ass barely covered.

As Juliana moved, she felt the pull of the satin garters, the coolness of the tiles rising up to meet her exposed belly. Her braid clung to one side of her cheek.

"Look at me, nothing else," he said with quick shake of his head and he felt a jolt in his gut.

Warm aftershocks trickled downward, teasing his athletic thighs and the space in between. John willed the tent in his trousers to recede by imagining anything dreadfully bland: the pile of paperwork stacked on his desk; cornflakes; celery. He idly clasped his hands in front of his growing fascination with her.

"You know, being my...slut…has tremendous advantages, namely the opportunity to serve the highest ranking Nazi official in the entire continent. There's some real bragging rights in there, I assure you."

That pencil-cracking smirk.

Bile rose. She nearly paused to rake her short nails across the tiles in pure rage. It must have shown on her face because John stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at her. Specifically, at how her braid faintly swayed against her left breast after she stilled.

"Having second thoughts? They should have crossed your mind after you escaped from the Reich, then eluded the Kempeitai." He paused and fixed her with such a glower. "You _murdered_ Joe Blake."

She sucked in a breath. She did indeed kill him. But it wasn't like that.

After encountering a Reich-recycled version of Joe, she made the split second decision as soon as she learned she was in danger. The same could be said of the time she killed Trudy's father.

John continued, "You killed at least half a dozen guards in both the GNR and JPS, and then you spied on a top-secret Reich experiment."

Her eyes couldn't help but drift to the golden eagle, wings spread in warning welcome to what had to be one of hell's entryways.

John's boots rapidly descended upon her. Juliana swiveled her eyes down.

"That's right, eyes up front," added an increasingly agitated John. "Don't ever forget that." He tilted her chin up. "What do you have to say to me, slut?"

"Forgive me, John," she responded hopefully.

"There is no religion -"

"I apologize, John."

"For…?"

"I apologize for attempting to decipher just what sort of hideous creature is hanging directly above me right now, John."

He felt his skin crawl a little. So, she had acknowledged _it_. A smug banner any interior decorator worth their salt would describe as tastefully boisterous. Juliana no doubt despised it – but she didn't have to live with its watchful, beady eyes, day in and day out.

He unquestionably hated the miniature monstrosity more than she did.

Looking down upon her hands delicately resting upon the floor, the poised arch of her back, her clawed up face, John allowed the most primal, depraved urges to overthrow rationality.

Deep brown lashes whipped wing-like while penetrating eyes devoured her nubile body – as if it kept locked away the last dewdrop of come in the entire multiverse.

"I did wonder what you might have thought of the décor. Not up to your standards, I take it?" He laughed menacingly. "Sluts are not supposed to have standards. They fuck anyone and anything. They do." He nodded slightly.

The smooth intensity in those vulgar words startled her immensely.

A few strands of hair chose that exact moment to flop down into her eye. She tried to blow them away discretely, but it just returned to where it fell before, only now with more fine strands spread about.

John leaned close to her face. "Sluts have such messy hair," he sighed as he gathered each strand into a single lock that he glided through the tips of his thumb and forefinger, twirling it at the end and tucking it securely behind her ear.

"See? No standards. You're going to make a wonderful plaything," he teased, stroking her plump red lips with two fingers from top to bottom. The lower lip was gently tugged on, John's thumb sliding up her chin.

"But first, crawl." Sweet cinnamon and cigarettes wafted against her mouth.

Never once did they break eye contact with each other - it was especially challenging to tear one's eyes away from his sultrily saturated depths. Juliana was no exception.

She urged herself to imagine him as a serpent, a demon, a goblin. But nothing could prevent the evidence of her lust from sliding onto the cotton gusset of her panties.

After a short four meters, she entered the living room, sparse and utilitarian compared to the Smith's Long Island home, with its well-tread staircase, inviting, plush furniture and harmonious hedges. John stopped and pointed to an area on the carpet with indentations where the small coffee table used to be.

The towering GNR Headquarters played voyeur from a distance.

Her ears perked up and tuned into the background noise. Sirens, shouting. Gunfire?

"Right here – do not go any further," John broke in.

Heaven was when her sore knees traded hard for soft, nestled in the yarn of an area rug. She propelled herself forwards eagerly until he yelled at her to stop. The abandoned coffee table and some stiff-backed arm chairs had been hastily shoved to the side.

John faced the windows and noted the side table with all the favorite family photos. He turned them over slowly, saving Thomas' for last. He held it while staring at the fires burning under the watchful eyes of the swastika of the GNR headquarters, lit like a permanent warning beacon. He shuddered as he took one last look at his boy's photo and turned the pewter frame face down.

Placing his hands behind his back he allowed the unresolved rage and fear to meld inside until they pushed him even taller.

"Do you recall how I told you earlier that your usefulness was about to run out?"

She didn't respond.

"Well, slut?"

"Yes, John. I recall," she replied with robotic haste.

Though his footsteps were muffled by the carpet, the impeccably shined boots were the stuff of many a nightmare for Juliana. They stopped beside her. Her braid was yanked back forcefully but not enough to pull at her scalp unduly.

"This here is quite useful."

John wound the twisted section around his palm three times, marveling at how it had gotten so very long since they last met, some six months ago. His lips lingered over the wet tip of the braid, the ebony satin ribbon. He inhaled; there was the faintest hint of coconut. He dropped her hair, letting his left hand drift over her spine.

"You may be of some great use to me yet."

His fingers traced her terrible raised scars. Suddenly, he pulled her up by the hips and tiled her tailbone such that her spine lay perfectly flat. All her seductive curvatures ironed out for a reeducation of sorts.

"Bow your head. Keep your back perfectly straight. Look down at this lovely carpet. Don't take your eyes off of it." He barked out the orders with military precision.

Juliana yelped at the feel of something round and rather cold being placed below her shoulder blades. John leaned over and a familiar gurgling drifted to her ears. He carefully poured the aromatic Dornfelder into the crystal wine glass, stopping a little higher than halfway.

"Remain still." She shivered.

"Don't let it tip over now. I won't tolerate any spills on this rug." He came up to her ear. "You also run the risk of ruining that trampy outfit of yours."

He slipped a finger beneath one of the bra straps. Fearing he would snap it, Juliana squeezed he abdominal muscles tight, focusing on the task at hand.

Her only hope of making it through, though it went against her value system entirely, was to submit willingly and completely to the Reichsmarschall. Life in the Japanese Pacific States had taught her well. Thankfully, this man would never understand to what extent her strict Aikido lessons had prepared her for fights against unyielding opponents.

John's boots were very close to her face. She could tell by the overpowering aroma of leather even if she didn't see them standing guard out of the corner of her eye. The scent was not unpleasant.

There was something about this prolonged punishment, having to keep absolutely still while posing as a low table, eyes trained on the ostentatious black, red and tan floral rug, that caused a familiar pulsating sensation around her clit.

The boots strode away; their indescribable ambient scent taunting her.

He returned ten minutes later, after having made a call to check in on Himmler's status. Juliana wished she knew to what he was referring to. He was in a pensive mood.

"Move yourself a few inches to the right."

She did as instructed. John sunk to his knees behind her, reaching out to caress a frilled panty leg. Juliana went to turn her head to see what he intended.

"What did I say about 'eyes up front'?" He flicked at her earlobe. "This is for _my_ eyes only," he rasped. "If you can't help peeking, I have a remedy for that."

He proceeded to run his hands down the back seam of the stockings as he had longed to do for so long. Years.

John licked and kissed the sweet-scented skin behind her thighs. Cupping her firm, round cheeks, barely larger than his hands; tightening his hold as he lowered his face to take in her essence. Grasping her legs, he nudged his nose along her slit, inhaling with pleasure.

She bucked as only a statue could.

John finally removed the glass, but Juliana's self-satisfaction was once again replaced by degradation after he reached under and passed the pads of his fingers over a nipple before tweaking it. She let out a mild shriek as pain flashed through her.

"The poor little table slut is afraid to get her sexy legs wet, is that it? How unfortunate."

He stood and draped his long frame over the elegant striped silk couch with the wine in his hand, not caring if any of it splattered anywhere (she was another matter altogether).

"I'll have her dripping in no time,'' he muttered into the wine glass as he unceremoniously rested his feet on Juliana's back, crossing one boot over the other. The sudden heftiness nearly buckled her spine, but she kept herself level.

Breathing. Counting. Concentrating.

Having traded the alcohol for another vice, John took long drag and exhaled thoughtfully.

"Let me tell you about my day, Miss Crain." He took another slow puff, regarding his cigarette.

"Yes, I think it's best I reserve your other name for truly special activities. Anyway, this morning I made quite the discovery ..."


	6. My Nazi Valentine

"And now they're gone. She took my children and ran. From me! Can you imagine?"

John was on his second cigarette and had downed most of the wine. He raised the glass to his lips and tilted his head back to drain the last inch or so when an incessant buzzing distracted him - the light near the entrance started flickering. Then the various pointless knickknacks adorning the shelving began to rattle.

The wine sloshed around in his glass; a large drop landed right on the hollow of his neck and slid down his chest. Even his legs began to shake. Juliana was as rigid as ever, yet his boots atop her quivered. He removed them immediately and rose from the couch.

As for Juliana, she seemed more than relaxed, considering the physical strain she was under.

It was possible she had entered what those in the kink community referred to as _subspace_, wherein a sexual slave or submissive becomes so enmeshed in the pain, humiliation or other unsavory treatment forced upon them during a scene, they experience something akin to peaceful enlightenment.

But that could not account for all the sudden movement.

He had a fleeting memory of what had occurred when he encountered a real traveler for the first time – Fatima something. The wiring in the lab short-circuited; lights and machinery temporarily stopped functioning. And the woman disappeared before his very eyes, without a trace.

_Could_ _…?_

No. He dismissed the frivolous notion and crouched down in front of Juliana.

"Miss Crain."

She didn't budge. The shaking in the apartment had ceased but her head remained down, eyelids shut.

Against the rules.

He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. Nothing. He lightly slapped her cheek and her eyes opened just a crack. He reached back and yanked her hair.

"Ahhh!" she exclaimed somewhat groggily.

"What, were you sleeping? Are you getting bored?" John paced back and forth, kneading a temple while mulling over his options. He spun around. "You will kneel for me."

Truly exhausted from holding one position for just under thirty minutes, Juliana rolled her spine and stretched her tired limbs before heeding his latest instructions.

"Sit further back. On your heels." John could never be satisfied it seemed. He filled his wine glass until there was nothing left to pour and offered it to his prisoner, nicely this time.

"Drink, Miss Crain. We can't let this fine bottle go to waste."

Juliana sipped it warily, still in a slight daze from being in the trance-like state she entered. It felt like she was somewhat freer, lighter, unattached to anything but herself.

Saddened by near continuous loss and worn-down after years on the run, with no other options left for survival save the mercy of the Reichsmarschall, Juliana considered she may have subconsciously sought solace in her obedience.

Absurd notion aside, she could sense herself floating towards something immense and unknown. She could feel it building – and then he took it all away. Being plied with alcohol was positively the last thing she needed.

She hated the wine. Juliana preferred an ice cold beer or chilled sake, but that was beside the point. This particular wine was enjoyed by members of the Reich. She was tempted to spit it out, right in John Smith's smug face.

He watched her take small sips and tutted. "Miss Crain, you're taking too long. Do not make me force it down your throat like I did last time. We wouldn't want you dribbling all over yourself."

He, of course, would never admit the very same thing just happened to him. To do so would be to imply they were equals in some way. In his mind, they were nothing of the kind.

When she finally finished, he had her rise. The chain was reattached to her collar and she was led her to the bathroom, her wobbly legs making it that much more difficult to walk in the sky-high pumps.

At one point Juliana tottered so much she had to grab hold of a bookcase, but John just pried her hand off and rewarded her with a swift spank to her left cheek and a sharp push.

His cruel laughter threatened to eat at her spirit as she stumbled down the hallway.

The door was closed enough to be able to allow John to hold onto his captive, more so to exert control than to prevent her from escaping (as if that were even remotely possible).

Juliana stared into nothingness. _So considerate of him not to force me to urinate in a bucket like a real prisoner_, she mused. When she felt a tug, she reluctantly wiped, flushed the toilet, washed and dried her hands and was returned to the same spot on living room carpet as before.

Holding onto the chain with one hand, John placed his other between her shoulder blades and shoved her to the ground, back onto her aching knees. Her hair was gripped before she could blink.

"I think it's time for a little fun, slut."

He was back to that word. The one that would only be rolled out during special occasions…

John wrapped her braid around one hand, twisting it until it was tight enough to use as leverage. He easily flipped her over onto her back.

She squealed at the sharp sting of more hairs being plucked from her poor scalp against their will, while the orientation of her surroundings rapidly shifted. She fell at his feet with his hand still clutching her hair.

"You see? So very useful." He tossed the still-damp length onto her face and dragged her back towards coffee table by her hands.

She instinctively tried to maneuver out of his hold, to lift her pelvis enough to knock him off, but he was too quick. He straddled her wiggling form, trapping her thighs between his knees.

From his back pocket he produced the familiar set of handcuffs. Snapping the first cuff around her left wrist, he brought the other behind the table leg and secured her right.

Once both arms were locked in place, John wasted no time in placing hot kisses along her neck, fondling her breasts through the cups of her bra, ripping the fabric down and suckling her nipples. He moaned in utter contentment.

"I could devour these whole. I love your tits. I always want them in my mouth and under my hands."

He pinched a tongue-wet, pea-sized nipple, digging a fingernail into the very center, eliciting a startled hiss from Juliana. He smirked wickedly.

"I knew you would like that. Now lay back and take it like a good slut." And he bit at and pinched both nipples simultaneously, savagely for several minutes until they ached and burned.

John smoothed his hands over her torso and lapped at her navel, kissing her flat tummy in a straight line, lower and lower, until he reached the silky waistband of her panties.

The instant her eyes met his, John let his lips rise minutely and wrenched them down.

Juliana rolled her hips from side to side and clamped her thighs shut. "No no no..." she protested halfheartedly.

She started flopping around like a fish. His little koi was dancing with excitement!

"Yes, oh yes," he crooned as he tugged the satiny material past her knees. She assumed he would remove them and have his way with her.

But John had another idea.

She was still wearing the heels he so adored on her. Too bad he had to remove them for the time being or risk a punctured eye.

With his heated gaze trained on her, he coaxed her shoes off, one by one, setting them reverently on the floor, as if they belonged to a queen.

Next he took hold of her panties and pulled out her right leg only. Twisting them around the middle, he wrapped the free leg opening around both ankles snugly, but not so much as to cut off her circulation.

He wasn't finished.

John pushed her legs back until they ran perpendicular to the ceiling and pried her knees apart. He leaned down and ordered her not to move a muscle.

To Juliana, the mere pretense of catering to this demented man's every whim proved even more challenging than originally anticipated. She played along and nodded in apparent confusion.

John released her wrists and tossed the metal restraints onto the coffee table. Swiftly, he looped each arm underneath its corresponding knee, forcing her to grasp her ankles for purchase.

He stared down at his prey with those blazing green orbs to keep her body in place as he pulled yet another item out from beneath a couch pillow.

Rope: black, semi-thick and soft.

He concentrated as he bound her petite wrists and ankles together, having honed his rope skills first as a sailor, then as a soldier. Now he was but a man with a fetish for rebels tied up in neat little packages.

He slid the heels back into place, mesmerized by their satiny bows. When he was finished hovering over her toes, he stepped back to admire his work of art.

She was so, so painfully erotic to look at – especially with her hands gripping the shoes like that. He wanted to come all over them, walk away, and eat a freshly butchered, blood-drenched sirloin while picturing his creamy remnant running down her fair skin, sticking to her stockings.

Still donning his uniform trousers, John sat on the rug, one leg straight out, the other bent at the knee, propped near her left hip. He wasted no time in finding her small thatch of dark brown hair, squeezing and releasing the pillowy flesh.

He had such fine elegant fingers for a fascist monster, Juliana noted traitorously. She watched in fascinated horror as he glided them lower, massaging her hood, teasing her inner and outer folds.

At one point, he bounced his fingers over that taut little junction separating her sex from her other, tighter hole.

Never once did he venture too close to her clit.

He removed his fingers and wiped them atop her slender thigh, now glistening with moisture.

"I take your wetness as consent," John informed matter-of-factually, as if spelling out the consequences to a suspect suspended from the ceiling, seconds before the lash swung and struck.

He then grabbed the empty wine bottle sitting on a side table and began to stroke its neck as if it were his own cock: firm, yet easy; prolonging the inevitable.

Juliana was rendered mute once the wine bottle appeared. She strove to focus her attention on his partially exposed chest; the serious set of his mouth.

"Won't you be my little slut again, Miss Crain?" he asked.

_Won't she be his bound captive Valentine? _

She lay there in absolute trepidation, mortified to the core. Against her better judgement, Juliana refused to let him see her testing the bonds. She so desperately wanted to escape but managed a noncommittal nod.

His preternatural eyes acknowledged the tiny gesture of affirmation, but only words would appease him. Otherwise, it would cease to be his fantasy.

At his unwavering stare, she replied that she would be his "dirty, helpless slut again," pursing her full lips for deliberate effect.

He didn't hesitate, kneeling before her body, spread open like a soon-to-be-corrupted butterfly. John began to glide the neck of the bottle over her lips, again avoiding her most sensitive, hungry spot.

He held her squirming body by the waist and rubbed her juices around. Not quite satisfied with the level of lubrication, he spat on the bottle, spread it around the neck, held her lips open and aimed.

Inch by inch, the smooth, cool glass plunged into her depths. When it was about halfway in, John slid it back out all the way with an audible pop.

Juliana whimpered, mainly in protest.

"Does my slut want more of this bottle of fine German wine shoved up her tight (he pulled on her thigh with his teeth forcefully)… little (he bit the base of her thigh)…pussy?

He finished his erotic assault by smacking her rear just close enough to send titillating vibrations to that hidden erogenous zone he'd toyed with before.

She found everything he said and did to her both horribly insulting and incredibly arousing.

W_hat the fuck_was _he doing to her? _In all her twenty-eight years, she'd never imagined…

Poised with the tip of the bottle at her opening, he started to get riled up. "Answer me, slut. Now. And be detailed about it."

John Smith was one sick fuck.

"Oh yes, John, your slut is so ready to be punished with that thick, hard bottle," she rattled off, a verbal roll of her eyes. "My pussy is so tight and wet…I need to feel it. Please, John, cram it inside of me."

He watched her sinful rose-red lips move over each embarrassing word, but he was drawn like a rock hard magnet to one in particular.

"At what point did I say this was going to be a punishment?"

Her mouth went dry.

Despite his personal agenda, John felt this was too delicious an offer not to humor.

"While I would normally jump at such an opportunity, Miss Crain, right now I am going to have to politely decline."

At this, he slid the bottle home, pumping her with a subtle twisting motion and characteristic precision. "However," he continued cryptically, "I'm sure something can be arranged; that is, if it meets my specific requirements."

Juliana emitted a low moan as the lip of the bottle teased her g-spot. Even though seething with resentment, every new perversion he introduced seemed determined to make her wetter.

John's domineering presence alone sent heat rushing through her veins. Her clit was primed to burst at a single swipe of his finger - or tongue.

He went at her so long his wrist began to ache. It was an awkward position for him with her tied like that, yet it was worth it not only for the stunning visuals, but also to hear evidence of this unnatural creature's arousal.

He fought a sudden urge to whip out his straining erection and rub it against her cheek, knowing that, despite her initial reluctance, she had warmed to her role and was just itching to let go. 

_What I wouldn't give for these oppressively drab walls to be tinted the same oceanic shade as her eyes, by the dulcet tones of her rapture_. He bit back a groan as he watched her neck arch, lashes fluttering.

Panting, walls clenching against the inflexible intruder, Juliana was dumbfounded when the bottle was slowly guided out and set on the carpet, soaked in bubbling juices.

John knelt next to her, lifted her head and brought the neck of the bottle to her lips.

"Lick it clean."

"I –"

Ignoring the sheen of perspiration trickling down his neck and curling the hairs along his forehead, John proceeded to methodically rub the wet bottle all over her lips.

Evilly, he growled that she should move over it "just like a cock," taking care to "watch the teeth."

She began to lap up the juices as he held the bottle in front of her. He turned the bottle so that she could drink it down.

"Open for me, slut."

With that, she took the smooth glass into her mouth and tasted herself completely. John tipped the bottle forwards and the liquid inside drifted onto her tongue.

She almost choked on the strange combination of her slick, pearly essence and the last dregs of wine. It created a sweet, tangy mess in her mouth.

"Good girl. Now, swallow."

He wanted so badly to tend to his own needs but the scene was almost over, and it would be such a shame to interrupt the finale.

He gently caressed her throat and she gulped. She licked her wine-tinged lips, smiling on a sigh.

Floored by her unexpected display of gratitude, John pulled Juliana close by the metal ring of the collar and kissed her full on the mouth.


	7. Tornado

He didn't know he was seeking it. A smile was all it took. Juliana was being so obedient and he knew he had her under his thumb at last. A feeling of almost euphoria made him do the unthinkable.

When John bit into her lower lip, she gave back immediately, rubbing her mouth against his and then withdrawing a bit, instigating. He growled and pried her lips open insistently, latching onto her tongue, sucking on the sensitive tip. She moaned as he tugged and prodded.

John kissed her hungrily, practically laying on the ground on his right side, holding her head to his as if he were lost at sea.

He no choice but to hold on – control was everything.

After another minute of testing and exploring, he pulled back, panting, his snow white shirt disheveled beneath his suspenders, collar crumpled. His overheated skin intensified the warm smokiness in the cologne he wore. The color in his cheeks was heightened, setting off his extraordinary cheekbones.

But his eyes were glittering darkly, unsettling.

"Oh what a hot little slut you are, Miss Crain. With such a hot, tempting mouth," he rasped, letting out a ragged sigh as he dusted his fingers over the cleft in her chin.

It had always been her most despised feature, aside from her A-cup breasts.

His breath tingled the hairs of her ear. "Also, extremely useful."

She gulped. He noticed her every response and traced the line of her throat, admiring how the slight movement rippled against the supple leather of the collar. It was infuriating how rapidly his balls tightened at the sight of that simple action alone.

He had to admit – a bound Juliana Crain was truly a work of art. He would gladly replace the portrait of Himmler in his office with one of her painted like this.

However, she couldn't stay tied in that position for too much longer – her servitude was not yet complete.

Indeed, when would all this end?

John wordlessly worked at releasing her from the ropes around her wrists and untwisted her panties from her ankles. He let her rotate her hands around to restore circulation while he massaged her delicate ankles.

Afterwards, he locked eyes with hers and commanded her to lower her hands to her sides and not to move them under any circumstances.

Again, she automatically obeyed. He was privately thrilled.

The panties were guided up her legs. Juliana lifted her hips so he could glide the sheer lacy undergarment into place above the garter belt that accentuated the tautness of her stomach.

She had the body of a prey animal, adapted for running, climbing, and doing whatever else was necessary to escape at a moment's notice. The core strength she must have exerted for her to be able to act as his own personal footstool astounded him.

He lifted one of her legs, hands stroking beautiful calves that begged to be touched. He nudged her stockings with his nose, pushing at the fabric. She smelled like a goddess, a vixen from an ancient land that reemerged in 1930s Berlin and embodied the essence of von Sternberg's _blaue Engel_.

The hands capable enough to snap a neck or pull a trigger were gentle yet persistent as they roamed her silken inner thighs.

And then...

Her natural aroma admitted everything, negating the need for further investigation. But this was no ordinary situation. His captive needed to confess or suffer dire consequences.

Juliana's legs began to shake and he pressed a hand on her abdomen to hold her in place. With his stiff, wet tongue John licked her slit back to front, front to back, occasionally probing deeper.

He abruptly closed his mouth over the entirety of her clit, much as he had done to her lips earlier – fully, completely. He sucked firmly, demonstratively, as if he owned every inch of her. As she was a prisoner of the Reich, he did in a way.

"Ahhh...fuck!"

"Do tell, Miss Crain."

He pulled the satin and lace taut over her clit and exhaled his heated, cinnamon-tinged breath over it, pushing his thumb against her center, reinforcing the obstacle. Soon he replaced his thumb with his tongue, which he thrust against the spot repeatedly.

Juliana writhed under him, biting her lip, instinctively grabbing for the hands clinging to her hips in covert possession. John looked up at her and smirked.

She joined in, even giggling a little; one had to in order to endure the surrealness of the situation: Reichsmarschall John Smith in all his glory, lewdly perched between her thighs, gazing at her with unrepentant lasciviousness.

In the next few seconds, Juliana found herself with him straddling her body, wrists pinned on either side of her head.

Instead of screaming, she allowed her lips to curve seductively. John was momentarily tempted to ask if she wished for a ball of yarn to play with.

Just then, he was taken completely off-guard as Juliana knocked him from his perch with an explosive thrust of her hips. She simultaneously swung both arms to her sides as if making a half snow-angel, whipping her head to the left.

John's pleasant thoughts disintegrated as he was pitched forward in direct line with the coffee table. He lost his grip on her wrists as he hastened to stabilize himself.

While this was happening, Juliana hugged her body to his rigid torso lightning-fast, clinging and climbing. She seized his left arm and tossed him onto his back. He fell with a grunt.

"Fucking bitch!" he spat under his breath, unable to comprehend the past ten seconds.

She took off the stilettos and bolted down the hall, stopping halfway to pelt one at his head when his disorientated form began to rise from the carpet. The spiked heel narrowly skirted past his neck.

Juliana cursed herself for forgetting about the wine bottle as she turned and fled down the dim hallway.

Once cosseted inside the bathroom, she connected the simple latch lock. She quickly filled a tumbler with tap water, sloshed it around her mouth and spit, repeating the action until she could no longer taste the unpleasant concoction. She then guzzled down as much as she could to quench her thirst and steady her nerves.

Her eyes flicked to the left of the vanity, where her stained jumpsuit rested atop a short stool, canvas slippers hidden beneath.

Formulating a plan quickly, an unfortunate memory resurfaced.

Quietly, mechanically, she smashed the heel of the stiletto not launched at John Smith's head into the front of a long-handled silver mirror. It was hefty and featured a heart filigree pattern; more than likely an obscenely expensive purchase. A matching hairbrush lay next to a tin of dusting powder, its bristles interspersed with strawberry blonde hairs.

Of course the set belonged to his wife. Overriding any guilt she felt over breaking such a valued object was the knowledge that, were Helen in her predicament, she wouldn't hesitate to do the very same thing.

Juliana hurriedly pushed out the glass, selected a small, jagged piece for herself and threw the rest in the wastebasket.

Boots stormed down the hall. Then, silence.

She braced herself, eyes focused on the object in her hand, willing it not to shake.

Unfortunately, the chair she had wedged beneath the handle for extra security was no match for the impatient, confused rage of John Smith.

The sheer force of the kick caused the door to slam against the wall twice. A framed watercolor of a fair-haired maiden gathering edelweiss in a basket slid down the wall and earned a web of cracks when it crashed onto the tile.

John materialized as a furious stallion on powerful legs, nostrils flaring, huge droplets of sweat trailing down his back and chest, with a throbbing pain in his shoulder from landing awkwardly on the carpet to prevent himself from colliding with the table leg.

Juliana tamped down her fear and doe-like instinct to flee and launched the mirror upwards, but the handle slipped out of her grasp and cut through the air like a lasso wielding a saw.

John swore as he ducked his head and pivoted away from the flying deathtrap. It skidded down the hallway.

With his back turned, Juliana had ample opportunity for a lethal strike. But she hesitated a split second too long.

It was almost as if she wanted to give in.

She really was very tired. Exhausted, actually. How could she travel if she was feeling too bone-weary to concentrate?

She should have been able to stab him in the very spot he had her support that glass filled with vile Nazi wine – in the middle of the shoulder blades – but something held her back.

The piece of mirror fogged up from the anxiety radiating like steam from the surface of her palm. As Juliana's fine tapered fingertips hovered over the edge, her very first "kill" came to mind.

She had a purpose; that much was clear. Yet again, she had a duty to carry out certain tasks, whether she was aware of her involvement or not (as in the case of her providing Trade Minister Tagomi with a film that aided in averting global catastrophe), in order to ensure the continued existence of this world.

Before her was a man who got away with murdering undesirable children, while his own attended private school and got the chance to make friends, play dress-up…

He absolutely disgusted her. She wished he'd turn around already so she could aim lower.

He could grab her and bash her head against the sink repeatedly. Drown her. Suffocate her with a hand towel. Scald her. There were oh so many options – so many ways John could dispose of Juliana Crain with his bare hands.

The near-fatal object was easily recognizable, as only two things in the entire room had long, ornate silver handles.

The soul-crushing phone call resurfaced. All forty seconds of it (he'd estimated).

When he lifted his head Juliana made the mistake of meeting a pair of tempestuous eyes, each accompanied by its own low-hanging black cloud.

John felt such a surge of adrenaline when he sensed her intense vulnerability that he wondered if what he was experiencing resembled a cocaine high. He never had the pleasure of (or interest in) partaking.

It felt so electrifying. Killing never energized him, but exerting dominance did. And sexually, his deep-set alpha masculinity held such potency it might as well be poison gas. His eyes, his hands, even his words – weapons more dangerous than any gun.

Every true submissive knew this. Which is why he knew the jig was up with her. Or, it would be shortly.

Besides, it was obvious what she attempted to hide from him. It was typed in all capital letters on the second to last line of Joe's autopsy report. It was necessary to ensure her survival.

But he could smell her fear.

"Drop it."

One boot stepped forwards and Juliana, quite unexpectedly, lifted the cut glass to her neck, stretched out like a sacrificial swan against her messy braid. At some point the slender black ribbon had escaped.

She was not so fortunate that she could magically disentangle herself from this nightmare.

One knew not to blindly trust the words of John Smith. His '_I am not going to kill you_' could be roughly translated to mean _'I am not going to kill you until I've crossed off every single item from my extensive list of perversions_.'

Poised to launch a counterattack, John stopped cold at the sight before him.

His heart actually dropped. A heavy inertia settled throughout his body and tempered the molten lust surging through his groin.

His itinerary for the evening fell off the rails completely.

The suggestion of a shift in the atmosphere began with that wicked kiss, which occurred because he idiotically mistook her smile for gratitude, or at the very least some sign she was enjoying herself beyond autonomic responses.

So why wasn't she already lying in a bloody heap on his bathroom floor?

Because Juliana Crain was different. No blood belonged on her neck, only that collar – only ever that collar. And maybe, just maybe, she could serve him in a way he never thought possible.

She stood right in front of him, as always unfathomably elusive.

She had to be bluffing.

Juliana was not bluffing. If she was tired in this world, at what point would she be able to rest in another?

According to the prophecy of the films, her life seemed destined to be stuck in an interminable game of cat's cradle – or pinball; she couldn't say for certain. Regardless of which world she ended up in, some form of chaos would abound, or would at least threaten to do so, such that she would never have any real hope of a stable life.

One small crumb of rationality remained: Sleep. She needed it badly. Not death.

"You know as well as I do that isn't a very nice way to go, Miss Crain."

The black clouds lifted above the lush green of John's eyes, but live wires lay strewn about in the aftermath.

Her own, in turn, brightened for a moment, belying her flagging stamina. "No. It isn't, John."

She stepped forward and attempted to expend all her remaining energy into repeating the same action that proved lethal for Joe. Though for her part, she did lower her aim considerably.

But Juliana forgot that John wasn't Joe. And he was convinced she wasn't going to kill anyone tonight. Certainly not with any part of the mirror and hairbrush set he gave Helen for their first wedding anniversary, paid for with American dollars, not German marks.

John deflected the blow with ease and efficiency, exactly how he would have if anyone tried to maim or murder him. Immediately, both her wrists were seized and held captive in one massive hand.

He carefully pried the glass from her fingers and discovered it was shaped vaguely like a tornado.

Even though he had grown up in the Midwest, John had never encountered a fully-formed twister before. There was that one time a skimpy funnel cloud had terrorized his family's vegetable garden for about two minutes before it petered out, but it hardly counted.

Holding that tiny piece of reflective glass impressed upon him a mock sensation of that self-destructive roar that he'd suppressed for months. The grief he felt for Thomas alone was beyond oppressive.

And the ruminating – it very nearly incapacitated him, constantly having to grapple with the bitter truth that to be a man of such stature meant greater precautions must be taken to prevent (or conceal) whatever liabilities might taint his appointment.

He had to accept that his very mortal wife had chosen their very mortal children over him, just to survive. An extremely sobering fact.

'_And what you can't conquer, you'll just destroy_' was Juliana's retort as she mocked the Nazis' foolish notion they could achieve multi-dimensional supremacy by utilizing a man-made portal.

John never intended to participate in the annihilation of unseen universes; or entire populations; or anyone – anything.

In that moment, as he confined this spirited (though admittedly broken) woman in his arms, he implored whatever higher power existed – regardless of what he proclaimed about the GNR's views on religion – to help him make the right decision for the both of them.

He tossed the shard into the trash and set the discarded chair to rights. Before she knew what was happening, Juliana was flipped onto her stomach, over his thighs.

_Thwack!_

Left cheek, right cheek. Four times each, without pause. Panties pushed over her cheeks, out of the way. Wrists pressed together at the small of her back, lips gasping with the release of pure relief.

The touch that singed but never quite scalded was unexpected.

She squirmed fitfully at the loss of contact on her posterior.

"Be still, Juliana."

He yanked the material over her crotch aside. One finger curled into the heart of her, so smooth and present. So very present. She clenched upon it like a warm vice.

He always knew.

A second finger joined the first and together they fed into her time and again. She moaned. He pumped his fingers in a few more times. She uttered a very unladylike expletive.

_Bad girl._

John brought his saturated fingers to mouth, rubbed them over her soft open lips, pushed them onto her tongue.

"Taste yourself."

Now she lapped gratefully.

"Such a dirty slut," he growled as she squirmed over his cock. "You'd better fucking thank me."

"Thank you, John," she slurred around his fingers.

He removed the slick digits only to casually graze them along the intricate lace of her panties, directly over the source her damp heat.

"Oh please…" She tried to grind herself against him.

"Hmm?" She was too distracting.

"Please…John," her sigh dissolving into a whimper because she knew his hand belonged there, petting her pussy with mind-numbing tenacity.

John's erection was crying out for its own pressure valve to be opened. It had been weeping on and off for weeks. Now with this demon-fairy laying on top of his thighs, aching for more pleasure, it was just about to start sobbing.

He stroked her hair and tugged at it, gently at first, but grew rougher as she neared her peak.

All of a sudden John removed his sodden fingers, lifted her up and guided her briskly out of the bathroom.

"John, what? No…"

He marched her past the living room and master bedroom, turning into the sparsely but opulently furnished guest room.

A full-sized bed with a beige tufted headboard and ivory silk bedspread was located in the center. Modern wallpaper with sea green, vibrant red, and white fan-shaped flowers outlined with pale gold, as well as matching decor, pulled the room together.

John wasn't particularly fond of it. He pushed Juliana onto the mattress.

Immediately, she curled up like a cat. She squeezed her thighs together, although her arousal was clearly losing its battle with her genuine fatigue. He pulled the covers over her.

"Rest, Juliana."

He calmly took a seat in the green armchair situated in the corner, crossing his legs, tall boots gleaming in the moonlight. "You're going to be needing it."

After she fell asleep, John returned to the hallway outside the bathroom door. He retrieved the broken mirror and nonchalantly dumped it in the kitchen trash bin to marinate in the sea of decomposing potato peels, vanilla cupcake wrappers, and used coffee grounds.

He went to get the rope.


	8. Fleur de Bohème

The rope was exactly where he'd left it, tangled up on the rug.

John could still hear the faint chants of "blood and soil" like an eerie broken record. It was just past 1:30 am.

The Hitler Youth were relentless. They had been schooled too well by a system that did not tolerate dissention of any kind.

That could have been Thomas out there.

Witnessing his only son's earnest participation in the communal destruction of historic landmarks would break his heart; naturally, Thomas would assume he was making his father proud.

John would never forgive himself for helping to instill this monstrous ideology into his children's trusting minds. For making them believe he wouldn't think well of them if they failed to uphold the values of the Reich.

Now Thomas was a part of the past, just as America was.

If he went near that window again he would punch through it with such force all the glass would shatter into millions of tiny pieces, which would rain down upon the revelers: his tears of rage. The pain would serve as a convenient substitute distraction.

Substitute because the real thing was at that moment slumbering in his guest bedroom.

All thanks to Juliana, the last twenty minutes or so were a blur: That wondrous kiss. The double-crossing. The satisfying kick in the door. The deadly shard of glass. His newly estranged wife's equally deadly hand mirror. The struggle to make sense of it all. Finally, the mixed emotions that burst forth, culminating in his turning her over her knee and spanking her bare ass while she moaned and writhed. Feeding her with fingers slick from restless anticipation.

And when would he attend to his own needs? Had he made a mistake in bringing her here? Where was the incentive if she planned to outsmart him at every turn?

John had never considered that she might be physically capable of that deft maneuver, slamming him onto him onto the carpet like a sack of potatoes – all 185 pounds of him. He would just have to be more vigilant around the unpredictable little tigress from now on and ensure he kept her in line.

John retrieved the black rope and coiled it around his hand, contemplating its reinforced network of interlocking fibers; taut, like solid muscle.

It also brought to mind the futility of his situation, which had at times generated truly morbid thoughts. The excruciating nightmares detailing the abhorrent deeds he carried out in Cincinnati – no, not things, _crimes_, he reluctantly admitted – warped his mind and threatened to unravel his carefully erected persona of a cold-blooded Nazi prince.

Even if his life became so bleak that he would want to end it all, there were practical considerations. This was the only rope he owned and it just wasn't strong enough to bear his weight without snapping prematurely. And knowing Juliana, she would probably hear the sounds of the noose slowly breaking and move hell and high water to save him.

But as long as she was tied up, he reasoned, this final act would never come to pass. That rope was destined to be an instrument of pleasure, not a harbinger of suicide.

It was one of the items he kept from his old life, locked away in a trunk in his study, a place everyone always knew was off limits. John was a sentimentalist. No one who encountered his icy demeanor and bone-chilling gaze would peg him as such, but there it was.

He wasn't surprised that he hadn't been drunkenly wallowing in his own misery, all red-faced and blotchy with tears from staring at photos of his family for hours, fingering Helen's bathrobe with one hand, clinging to Amy's stuffed bear, Herbert, with the other. That just wasn't him.

It had not sunken in yet, the idea of Helen fleeing with their daughters because of his sworn allegiance to Reichsführer Himmler. Just as he had to shut his eyes when that mirror descended into the trash, as if swallowed by quicksand, he didn't want to dwell on where she had gone or what she might encounter along the way. Or how his girls would be fraught with fear and confusion – Amy more so than Jennifer.

His oldest daughter was well aware of the stakes by now. She didn't want to become another Thomas, nor could she be. Not a martyr for the cause, but merely evidence of the plague running through his family line.

He never should have had children. But he was a slave to his pride. He needed that picture-perfect family that he loved more than life itself back or...or, he didn't know what he'd do.

The emptiness was all-consuming.

And what of his object of distraction?

John stroked the rope absentmindedly, savoring the more pleasurable aspects of the evening.

Her legs. Her scent. Her face. Her neck. Her lips. Her stomach. The feel of the very heart of her. Her inborn submission. Her fire.

He couldn't let Juliana go just yet, that much he knew.

He rubbed at his face, scratchy with new stubble. In that kiss he had felt something. A subtle, yet tangible pull towards some untapped source of well-being he knew he wasn't worthy of enjoying.

A spasm of guilt struck him in the gut over her earlier mistreatment in the prison. It was either electroshock or a savage beating under his watch. Both were standard punishments. She was stubborn, as expected. He had no choice really. There was no going back after that sucker punch she delivered regarding Thomas' shame.

He winced again when he realized he essentially raped her with the wine bottle.

He knew he was a despicable excuse for a human being, but this was a new low. Decades of smoothly asserting his official authority as a means to instill complete subservience had crushed his moral compass under the heels of his regulation boots.

Going into this, he felt he had a right to make her anxious and uncomfortable after all she had put him through. But she was a friend to Thomas when he needed her, for which he was thankful. She really did deserve better.

But that didn't negate the fact that Juliana Crain was a known fugitive, wanted by both the Nazis and the Pons.

Nothing made sense anymore. And he still couldn't find any sexual relief. What the hell was stopping him?

John got up and threw the bottle smeared with her essence into the trash, making sure it was well hidden. He never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

After he returned to the couch, his head began to throb. He considered taking some paracetamol but his drooping eyelids won out. He shut his eyes and allowed his mind to drift.

Dim lighting. Music. Cigar smoke. Bawdy laughter. Men.

A small corner band played Henry Mancini's "Hub Caps and Tail Lights" while a Marilyn Monroe-type burlesque dancer showcased her ample wares onstage.

Erich, Klemm, and a few other guys from work were all gathered around a large round table in the back of a high-end lounge. One of them held a redhead in a glittering green dress on his lap. John was dressed similarly to the rest of the men in a dark grey suit, white shirt, dark tie. A nice silver watch but not as nice as the one he owned at home.

No wedding band.

Erich, ten years his junior, was finally getting married and settling down. People had known to stop pestering him about his own status. They knew John Smith to be a confirmed bachelor. He was fine with that. He had his work- it kept him busy. He had good benefits. And he was a consummate professional.

That wasn't to say he didn't get lonely. He did, often. He tried not to get envious when yet another of his colleagues' families expanded.

All the men were eyeing the woman on the stage with obvious appreciation. John tried to as well, but something kept distracting him. A scent, neither cloyingly floral, nor fruity and saccharine, but full of vibrancy and warmth.

It persisted. Highball glasses clinked.

To his right a cocktail waitress was clearing the table, placing each glass carefully on her tray. Her brown hair was up in a chignon. Her uniform was slightly less revealing that that of a Playboy bunny: a blue satin bustier dress with a ruffled skirt, trimmed in black, a matching black satin choker around her neck. When she moved around to the front of the table he caught a glimpse of her glorious legs, toned and slender, encased in sinful black fishnets.

He stared, willing the waitress to lift her face to meet his olive-hued eyes. When her dusky blue gaze finally found his, the connection lasted mere seconds, yet it was long enough for John to deduce that she was extraordinarily beautiful. Almost exotic.

She was young. Not high school young, but young for _him_. She smiled at him coyly with her full red-stained lips but pivoted away just as quickly, gliding through the crowded scene with poise and fluidity.

John found he preferred her fine-boned elegance to the other women's overt sexuality. He wanted to call her over to the table, but she was too far away and another waitress soon took her place.

_Ah well_, he thought. The good ones always got away…

"No, he wasn't black. He was _wearing _black."

A young brunette with mussed up hair beneath a prim hat, hugging her arms tightly about herself, sat in a room with a particularly clueless detective and a sleep-deprived sketch artist who nodded off every few minutes.

John had decided to forgo the rest of the festivities by utilizing his trusty excuse – old age. But the truth was just as pathetic – a stack of paperwork that came with his rank. The station was fairly desolate at this hour, which is why he was able to pick up on the conversation. Ordinarily, it was buzzing. He placed his coffee back on his desk and pushed himself up to peer through the blinds of his office.

It was the cocktail waitress. And she had what appeared to be a bruised cheek.

"What happened here?" John asked one of the night shift officers, Brady, as he entered the hallway.

"Eh, da lady almost got 'erself mugged near Port Authority, but Jones scared off da guy. Too bad he were too fast for dat tub o' lard to chase down. Bit late for a dame like that to be walkin' around all alone, 'specially dressed in 'er getup. Musta' thought she were a hooker. She says she ain't, though. Pretty em-patic about it, too."

John paced into the next room with a natural authority that was enhanced by his sturdy six-foot frame and stern features. In his youth he was deemed to be too 'pretty' to ever be taken seriously, but no one would dare make such a comment today, lest they find themselves demoted. Or worse.

"Miss?" His deep, raspy voice broke through and the woman looked up immediately. "I'd offer you some coffee, but I don't think it would help matters. You already seem fairly shaken up and, if you ask me, it tastes an awful lot like horse dung."

She let out a small laugh but self-consciously clutched her thin coat even closer. "No, you're probably right…"

"I _am _right. Inspector John Smith." He assessed her and suppressed a sigh. "That's some shiner you've got forming. You should ice that as soon as you get home."

"Yes, of course." She glanced around at everything and nothing, doing her best not to meet his piercing orbs. Did she recognize him from the club? "Um, I should get going if that's ok."

_Not dressed like that_, he thought.

"Well, Miss…" He peered at her file. "…Crain. It's nearly three in the morning. You shouldn't go home alone in such a state. Is there someone to call who can come pick you up?"

Predictably, she shook her head.

"No. It's just me living here by myself. In the city, I mean. All my family is back in San Francisco." She suddenly seemed acutely shy under his direct scrutiny, which silently urged a further confession. "I just started my job about a month ago."

She looked like she wanted to say more but yawned before any more words could tumble out.

"Can you give me a few minutes? I just have to close up shop and then I can give you a lift."

"No, really, I'm alright."

"It's no trouble at all, miss."

He let her gather her belongings and guided her to a chair outside his office. "Wait here. That's an order." His eyes brightened at her mumbled "ok" and he nodded once, striding away with purpose.

The ride took a mere ten minutes. He disengaged the siren as her neighborhood bordered a particularly sketchy area and he didn't want to draw unwanted attention.

John turned his head towards her slightly. "'You know, I've seen you before, Miss Crain."

"Oh?" Juliana tried to play dumb, but who could forget a set of eyes like his?

He inclined his head. "Tonight, actually. You're rather difficult to forget."

Though she refused, his insistence prevailed and he walked her up the steps to her building. He waited while she searched for her keys.

"May I ask, on which days are you scheduled to work?"

She bit her lip thoughtfully. "Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and on alternating Saturdays and Sundays."

"And what about tomorrow?"

"Yes, I'll be there tomorrow." She stilled. "Inspector Smith, do you need me to come down to the station again?"

"No, you've done well. We'll catch the maggot that did this to you." She smiled pitifully. "What time do you usually leave your job?"

She regarded him warily. "At two usually, but sometimes 2:15 if –"

"Then I'll see you tomorrow night, Miss Crain."

Without waiting for a reply, he tipped his hat, walked back down the steps confidently, got in his car and drove away.

Juliana stood there, stunned.

And so it went for the following couple of weeks. During that time they grew to know each other little by little, as much as one could ten minutes at a time. They were both rather slow to open up – Juliana out of inborn timidity; John because he was a rather private man.

The Inspector and his passenger were discussing the possible merits of _The Manchurian Candidate_ when something fell out of her open purse. She leaned forward to retrieve it from the floor.

"Miss Crain, you can find whatever it is you dropped when we get to your place."

But she was undeterred. "Almost got it."

He couldn't help but ogle her legs while she was bent over. Again, she wore those agonizing fishnets. His cock twitched painfully all of a sudden, as if all the months of self-enforced celibacy had started a minor revolt in his privates. Everyone (yes, everyone) trapped inside wanted out. Now.

"Miss Crain –"

And then came the pothole.

"Shit!"

"Ow!" Juliana was clutching her head, hissing in pain.

John pulled over immediately, right next to a fire hydrant. He was NYPD, so he was allowed to do this sort of thing on occasion.

He shut off the ignition and leaned over, titling her head back with both hands to examine her injury.

"I'm ok, John. It's fine."

"It's _not_ fine, Miss Crain."

He still insisted upon calling her that for some reason. He tutted as he felt a small lump forming on her forehead. "One of these days, they're going to have to make it illegal not to install a strap in every car, to hold girls like you in place."

Ironically, this car had not come equipped with seat belts.

She whipped her head around, shocked but amused. "Girls like me? Could you be a little more specific?"

John stared right back. He liked this. He liked _her_. "Wayward girls who don't do as they're told."

She scoffed, holding her head awkwardly. "What's that supposed to mean? You're not my father." She tried to giggle through the pain.

He glanced at her legs again. His eyes lazily traversed the petite curves her body and honed in on her eyes with barely disguised longing. "You're right. I'm not."

He let that statement simmer in the chilly autumn air (he had cracked open the window on his side so he could smoke). She took the hint and dared to press further.

"Are you going to arrest me, Inspector Smith?"

Would he ever. He couldn't act on his desires right at this moment, but neither would he forget her question. His fingertips emitted fine electric currents against her skin as he brushed them across her newly healed cheekbone.

"Ooh!" she exclaimed, jerking away. "Sorry. It's just that I feel a terrible headache coming on."

John pulled away and started the ignition. "Let's get you home then."

When they arrived he walked her up the front steps, as was his custom. She started to fumble inside her purse. "May I?" he offered.

She handed it over, groaning. "Please."

But the way she breathed that word into the small space between them startled him in the nicest way possible.

He fished around and easily located her keys. She only had two keys connected to a star-shaped keychain with "Macy's" etched in gold lettering, a change purse bulging with dollar bills, a compact, a tube of lipstick, and a handkerchief embroidered with pink and blue roses.

He quickly let her inside. Without asking permission, he followed behind.

He had never been inside her building before, but he knew the type. This was a slightly rundown brick walk-up with a layout similar to his brother Edmund's.

Edmund had died fourteen years ago trying to resolve a domestic dispute in Little Italy. The husband's gun went off accidentally. John had his doubts about that conclusion.

Juliana's six-floor complex was situated only two blocks from Hell's Kitchen in Midtown West. He felt bad for her, having to come home to these narrow, creaky stairs after spending hours on her feet in high heels.

But she wore them so well.

She led him upstairs and he watched her slim body sway gently from side to side. Teal blue pea coat barely covering her tiny dress; those stems that could murder him in his sleep.

Suddenly, he had an urge to take hold of one. With every step it seemed as if they were openly inviting his touch.

Blissfully, she only lived on the third floor.

"Oh, it's the worst, living literally surrounded by noise. But that's New York, I guess."

It was something she'd recited before to the only other two men allowed through her inner sanctum.

"It certainly is," he agreed. There was no denying that.

_3H_ the faded burgundy door announced. Here she took back her keys and unlocked the door, flicking on the light switch and tossing the keys on a nearby table.

Her living space could be described as elegant shabby chic. It was a charming midsized studio done up in a color scheme of light neutrals and warm pastels, making it appear larger than it really was.

"A total steal with what I make in a week."

It was obvious that a woman lived here. A young woman. Not a doily in sight. A newish record player, several albums neatly stacked on a shelf beside it. A few well-tended plants. A couple Degas prints adorning the walls.

"Do you happen to have any ice?"

"Of course I do! I don't live in the dark ages," she chuckled.

He grabbed a pristine dish towel that was hanging from the oven door. With the exception of a plate, mug and cutlery in the sink, the kitchenette was spotless.

John handed her the makeshift icepack. Her coat already dangling from a hook on the door, Juliana knelt on a small chintz love seat in her very skimpy uniform. He had to turn away, lest he betray his instant excitement.

It was one thing if she was working in the club amidst dim lighting and decorative candles. Now, with her perched expectantly on that stark white couch, alone…

He started sifting through the albums and found one with a peculiar title. "_Alley Cat_?" He held up the yellow cover. "I don't think I've heard of this one."

She turned around. "Oh, my sister Trudy sent me that for my birthday as a kind of joke."

He cocked his eyebrow. "Go on…"

She looked so bashful just then. "No…it's just that…" She looked sideways and rolled her vibrant blue eyes. "Trudy always said I reminded her of a cat. For the life of me, I'll never know why."

John could think of a thousand reasons why but forbade himself from voicing them.

"I'd let you listen to it," she continued, "but it would be really inconsiderate at this late hour. Plus, it's sort of…goofy." Her smile warmed his heart a little.

He came and sat next to her. "Let me see that bump of yours." He removed the ice pack. His bright green gaze swept over her forehead. They softened upon their descent, encountering a sparkling set of almond-shaped jewels, lightly rimmed with black liner.

"Actually, your eyes are very…catlike. Feline."

She blinked beguilingly, blood red lips parting of their own accord. "Really?"

He smiled. "Yes, really." John chanced a look down at her lips. "Very becoming."

She gasped. "Would you like something…something to drink?" Juliana felt a surge of heat creeping up her neck, settling high into her cheeks.

"No," he whispered huskily, not able to prevent his mouth from tasting hers, at last.

The subtle caress soon enough turned insistent. She let his hand drift below her neck, over her collarbone, which he kissed and licked softly. The tops of her breasts were next.

John was the most sensual man she had ever encountered. Ghosting his nose over the edge of her corset top, he had to inquire, "What on earth are you wearing?"

"A…well, it's sort of like a bustier but-"

"No, sweetheart, your perfume," he grinned against her ear. The scent was alarmingly arousing.

Between gasps, running her fingers through his short dark chocolate and silver curls, she told him, "Fleur de Bohème. It's very…hard to find…nowadays. I believe it's been…discontinued."

"Is that so? What a shame."

John wanted to bite into the tantalizing join of her neck and shoulders. Wrench her bodice down and feast on her pert breasts. Instead, he stroked her supple legs still clad in the deliriously alluring fishnet stockings. He wanted to tear those off with his teeth.

He abruptly released her when he felt her tense up. She was injured after all, and he felt like he might be taking advantage.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She licked her lips and seared him with hazy blue eyes. "It's ok. I won't break."

He smiled as he squeezed her pliant thigh and grazed her earlobe with his hot mouth. "I didn't think so, Miss Crain."

She shivered in anticipation but jumped back when a loud siren blared down the street, very close by from the sound of it.

Juliana rushed to the window and peeled back the sheer pale peach curtains. She pressed her delicate hands against the windowpane as she twisted her head this way and that to get a better view.

John thought she had an exquisite neck. So sleek. And a gorgeous dancer's body, for that is what she was. Or rather, what she was hoping to be.

The bright lights of New York beckoned to her, but unfortunately the only lights she was seeing lately were either turned down low or hideously glaring.

Sirens. He became immune to them years ago. Now they were as harmful to his ears as the buzzing of bees.

He slowly crept up behind her. Juliana caught his reflection in the glass just as he slid his hands along her ribcage, up her graceful arms, threading his fingers through her own. He lowered them to her sides.

Just then he caught a whiff of her unusual fragrance again. As John enveloped her body in his arms he was suddenly infused with a feeling of such possessiveness it threatened to overwhelm him.

"I've got you, Juliana…"

He groaned as he palmed her left breast over the silky material.

"Yes…"

She arched her spine wantonly. He couldn't help but grind himself against her ruffled mini skirt. His right hand snaked past her flat stomach, down lower. And beneath.

"I've got you right where I want you."


End file.
